


Search No More: A Froggy Fairy Tale

by ereshai



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Animal Transformation, Background James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers - Freeform, Background Pepper Potts/James "Rhodey" Rhodes/Tony Stark - Freeform, Background Relationships, Clint/Coulson Trope Bingo, Frogs, M/M, Magical Shenanigans, WIP Big Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 12:01:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7757101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ereshai/pseuds/ereshai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It was a warm summer morning when Loki the Trickster turned Sir Philip, Lord Coul, into a frog."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Search No More: A Froggy Fairy Tale

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I did not use honorifics correctly in this fic. I know it and I embrace it. None of this makes sense, but I'm okay with that.  
> Banners by knowmefirst - link is at the end of the fic.

It was a warm summer morning when Loki the Trickster turned Sir Philip, Lord Coul, into a frog. This was to Sir Philip’s advantage – he did not freeze to death before someone discovered his altered state. That the Trickster’s magic wasn’t as strong during the summer months was also in his favor – winter made Loki cold and cruel and his mischief lethal. Indeed, Loki had killed Sir Philip once before, but King Nicholas knew many magicians and the fatal spell had been reversed at no little cost. The only unfortunate consequence of Sir Philip’s resurrection was Loki’s increased attention. Sir Philip was the target of many a spell whenever Loki wished to express his displeasure with his brother, Prince Thor of Asgard, by inconveniencing his allies.

Whatever Loki’s current quarrel with his brother, it could only be a minor squabble – everyone knew how to reverse such a transformation. When Sir Philip was found huddled amid his crumpled clothing, he was taken straight away to King Nicholas. The kiss of a loved one, be they lover, spouse, brother, sister, or true friend, was all that was needed to return Sir Philip to his true form. The King and his most trusted counselor were closer than brothers; a bond forged on many a battlefield.

Sir Philip was placed on a sturdy table in the King’s library. Without ceremony, King Nicholas leaned down and placed a kiss upon his bumpy nose. A golden aura surrounded him, only to shimmer and fade away, leaving Sir Philip in his borrowed body. Whatever magics Loki was dealing in were not so easily broken, it seemed.

“Send word to Asgard,” King Nicholas commanded. “Perhaps Prince Thor will have some insight into his brother’s spell.”

By some luck, Prince Thor was that very day nearing the Kingdom with the intent of making a friendly visit with King Nicholas. The messenger met him with much relief and quickly shared the woeful news. Prince Thor, a man as loyal to his friends as he was deadly to his enemies, rode ahead of his escort in haste to offer his help.

Prince Thor’s presence did indeed improve the situation, though not as the King had intended. Within moments of his arrival, Thor reached out and pulled the very air into his fist. At his touch, the Trickster himself was revealed.

“I thought you would not be far from your latest knavery,” Prince Thor said.

“Hello, brother. Fancy seeing you here.” Loki’s sharp face held a wicked smile.

“No more games, Loki,” Thor demanded. “Set this right.”

“But I’m giving him what he wants.” None believed the innocent cast of his eyes.

“Do not think to tell me he wished for this.” Prince Thor flung his hand toward his bespelled friend.

“It is but a means to an end,” Loki replied. “You yourself wished he would find his heart’s truest love and put an end to his loneliness.”

To this, Prince Thor could say nothing. It was true he had wished that very thing, though not knowingly in his brother’s hearing. It was also true that if his brother was moved to grant such a wish, it would be in the least straightforward manner he could contrive. Not for him the easy matter of giving Sir Philip a name.

“If I had simply told him, would Sir Philip have heeded me?” Loki knew his brother’s thoughts as if they were in his own head. “In this way all doubt will be removed.”

“What other trickery then, Loki?” For all Prince Thor could not think like his brother, he did not underestimate him. “A mere transformation is too simple to be the sum total of your plan.”

The sadness Loki affected was as unbelievable as his play at innocence had been. “The True Heart Transformation does have one limitation. A minor detail, really.”

“And that is?” King Nicholas had been content to remain silent until this revelation.

“What was that line?” Loki asked himself with an absentminded air. “Ah, yes. ‘If true love there be, find it you must with kisses three.’”

Sir Philip gave a mighty croak, the first sound he had made since his discovery. It was not a happy sound.

“Even without words, my counselor speaks my thoughts on this matter,” King Nicholas said sternly. “Three kisses to find his true love? And if he does not?”

Loki shrugged. “Magic has rules, and only the foolhardy seek to flout them. If he does not find his true love, he shall retain this form until his death.”

“Do not test my patience or my friendship with your brother. There is fast coming a time when seeing your head upon a pike will be well worth the resulting war between our two kingdoms.” King Nicholas’ countenance took on a fierce aspect, well matched by the fire in his remaining eye.

Prince Thor frowned mightily, but King Nicholas was unmoved.

“Prince Thor, take your brother from my sight and keep him well away, or I shall heap well-deserved punishments on his head. Only the love between us keeps my hand from my sword.”

The Trickster went meekly with his brother, though his bent head could not hide the sly grin upon his face. Prince Thor gave no guarantee for his good behavior; all knew Loki did as he would, his will as changeable as the summer breeze and as easily contained.

King Nicholas beckoned to a man standing almost hidden in a corner. The man, his garments rough but well cared for, approached and bowed low.

“You found Sir Philip in his present state?” King Nicholas asked him.

The man kept his eyes downcast. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he answered in a low, strong voice. “I was sent to bring him word of various matters from his estate and found him thus.”

“What is your name?”

“Clinton of Barton.”

“Barton is one of Sir Philip’s holdings. You are beholden to him?”

“No, Your Majesty. I am a freeman.”

King Nicholas considered Barton carefully. “Do you find him a fair landlord? An honorable man?”

“He is both, Your Majesty. For the many kindnesses he has shown to me and to my brother, there is little he could ask of me that I would refuse him.”

What Clinton did not reveal to the king was his firm belief that he owed his life to Sir Philip - the greatest of kindnesses. This belief was much disputed by that very same lord whenever Clinton spoke a word upon the matter. Sir Philip could not dispute it in his present state and so Clinton, out of respect, remained silent as well. The question of what was owed aside, there was also the matter of Clinton’s inappropriate feelings for a man of Sir Philip’s station. That he would do anything for Sir Philip was the point; the why of it did not need to be known.

“And if I ask on his behalf?” King Nicholas still regarded Clinton thoughtfully. His face was grim, a sight which had sent lesser men scurrying from his presence, but Clinton saw it for what it was - concern for his dearest friend. The king, for all his power, was a man first, with all the strengths and failings of other men.

“What would you have me do, Your Majesty?”

“Only two kisses remain. I cannot say who his true love may be, but there is a lady of Sir Philip’s acquaintance who may prove to be so - his former fiancée, the renowned Lady Audrey of the Northlands. Will you take him to her and explain the matter?”

“I would count it a favor and think it no fair repayment to his lordship. But why entrust such a task to me, Your Majesty? Surely there are worthy knights and lords in your court?” Clinton bowed his head and waited for the blow such an impertinent question was sure to invite. It did not come.

“The Trickster struck his blow better than he knew. There is a viper nestled in the very bosom of our court, a many-headed snake which must be rooted out before it strikes. For this reason, those I would trust with this are bound to other pursuits.”

“I am but one man. What of Sir Philip’s safety, Your Majesty?”

“The gossiping tongues of the court are swifter than a fleet-footed horse. I do not doubt but that all now know of Sir Philip’s circumstances. I wager my enemies will count him no threat until he is returned to his former shape.” King Nicholas paused, remembrance on his face. “But I have been wrong before. I will provide an escort, though less than Sir Philip’s honor should command. One knight and four foot soldiers. They are all I can spare of my trusted men. Gather what belongings you will need; all else will be provided. You shall set out this day for Lady Audrey’s holding.”

With that, the king departed, his attendants trailing in his wake. Clinton knew King Nicholas to be wise and fair, but he was perhaps too removed from the life of the common man. Barton was some hours’ journey away and in the opposite direction of Lady Audrey’s lands; the only belongings he would be gathering were those he already carried with him. Perhaps if he had a horse he might manage it, but Clinton had no such possession; he relied on his own two legs for travel. By some luck, he had along his bow and a quiver of arrows, stored safely in the guards’ armory during his audience with the king. Now he had only to beg a spare shirt and trousers for the journey, else he would be turned away from Lady Audrey’s door as a shiftless wanderer when he arrived with his only clothing much abused by travel.

Clinton approached Sir Philip and held out his hand. “The king commands and we mortals must obey, is that not so, my lord? Come, I will see you yourself again, though the doing of it take me to the end of my days.”

Sir Philip hopped into Clinton’s hand and suffered himself to be carried away in search of the steward. They came upon him in the courtyard, overseeing the arrangement of food and equipment in a cart they would be using for their journey. With him was Sir Samuel, one of King Nicholas’ most valiant knights. He was well regarded by the Court as well as by the common folk.

Sir Samuel made his bow to Sir Philip. “The king has bid me accompany you and your man to the Northlands, my lord.”

Sir Philip chirruped in acknowledgement and then lifted and lowered his foreleg twice. Sir Samuel looked to Clinton. “Know you his meaning, goodman?”

“I do not, sir knight. Perhaps he is giving you his thanks?” Sir Philip was conscientious of his duty; he showed his gratitude when it was warranted. Clinton was grateful, as well. For a knight such as Sir Samuel to be entrusted with a task that must seem well beneath his station and to accept it graciously - the king’s trust was not misplaced. Sir Samuel’s reputation was well-deserved.

“And may I know your name, goodman?” Clinton answered freely and Sir Samuel nodded. “Goodman Clinton, if it is well with you, we will depart when this good steward has completed his work.”

The steward answered Sir Samuel’s unspoken question. “You may depart after the midday meal, Sir Samuel. Goodman Clinton, I have instructed the servants to retrieve your belongings from the armory, and I have taken the liberty of providing you with clothing to wear upon your arrival at Lady Audrey’s home.”

Sir Samuel and Clinton gave him their thanks and Sir Samuel took his leave to gather some few of his own belongings for the journey. A servant appeared to escort Sir Philip to his midday meal. Clinton fully expected to sup with the kitchen staff, but instead he and Sir Philip were shown to a private room, where they were provided with a simple but filling meal. There were no expectations of fine manners, yet even in his transformed state, Sir Philip ate with a delicacy that would not be out of place at the king’s table. In all things, he had Clinton’s admiration.

The sun was directly above their heads as they drove away in a large wagon. Sir Samuel was astride his own steed, Redwing, and the foot soldiers rode in the wagon bed with the provisions. Clinton had charge of the reins and Sir Philip was in a large box in which a deep bowl of water had been affixed, suitable for swimming should his Lordship become too hot. They traveled in high spirits until dusk began to give way to true night. By the light of torches, they set up camp and settled in to sleep, one person awake to keep watch during the first hours of the night. And so the night passed peacefully, each man taking a watch, until the sun began to lighten the sky once more.

They had barely begun their journey anew when they came upon a strange cottage. It did not rest upon the ground, but instead stood upon a pair of chicken legs, spinning slowly. Behind it, a garden grew wild.

“What magic is this?” Sir Samuel said as he drew his sword. The soldiers jumped from the wagon, ready to follow his command.

Clinton only laughed. “Put up your sword, good knight. I know this place well. Ho, the house!”

The spinning slowed until it stopped with the door facing them. It opened to reveal a young woman with red hair.

“Natasha,” Clinton called. “I see your grandmother is still away.”

“Hawkeye,” the woman replied in greeting. “Well met. Your visit is timely; my grandmother will return soon to take up her duties.”

Clinton nodded. “I would speak with you, сестричка, if I may?”

“That is the reason I have come to you. Bring His Lordship. The rest may take their leisure while we speak. The well has good water.”

Clinton left the care of the horses to the soldiers. He took up Sir Philip in his hands and spoke with Sir Samuel. “Drink your fill, but do not take anything from the garden, no matter the temptation.”

“This does not sit well with me, Goodman Clinton. What manner of place is this? What manner of woman?”

“You are wise to question, and if it were any other, we would be well away from here before she spoke another word. But do not fear for my safety or Sir Philip’s. Natasha is as a sister to me. She knows the ways of magic and she may be of help to him.”

“She is a witch?”

“A common term, Sir Samuel, son of Will, and not one I would choose,” Natasha spoke from behind them.

Sir Samuel turned and gave her a short bow. “A common term for an uncommon woman. My apologies, Wise One. You seem to have the advantage of me.”

Natasha smiled. “Titles are of no use to me. You may call me Natasha. Come, Clinton, I will not keep you from your travels over long.”

“Nothing from the garden. Tell the others,” Clinton reminded Sir Samuel before he followed Natasha into the cottage.

Inside, shadows and strange scents called up many a memory from Clinton’s past. All that was lacking was Natasha’s grandmother lying atop the stove.

“It’s been too long, братик.” Natasha embraced him briefly and then stepped back to study his face. “You have been too long in the sun. Wear a hat. Now, show me what the Trickster’s spell has done.”

Clinton lifted Sir Philip and looked him in the eyes. “I trust Natasha as I trust you, my lord. Let her examine you; mayhap she will break this curse.”

Sir Philip lifted his head and let it drop again. Clinton took it for agreement and placed him on the table in the center of the room. Natasha studied him carefully, even going so far as to poke him in the side. Sir Philip gave a loud croak. If ever a frog could be said to wear a frown, it was Sir Philip at that moment.

Natasha then asked for the words of the spell exactly as Loki had spoken them, and Clinton obliged her.

“The enchantment is a common one, but this spell, if we trust in Loki’s recitation of it, sets unusual conditions on the breaking of it. The requirements must be met; there is no other path to success.” As she spoke, Natasha studied the pages of a large book full of mysterious writings and disturbing illustrations. “Perhaps my grandmother will know more. There is little I can do.”

Clinton knew Natasha of old. “Little is not nothing.”

Natasha frowned at him. “There is a spell. It would require…It is not something I would want for you.”

“Me?”

“There must be balance, an even exchange. And I know well what you are willing to do for…” She looked at Sir Philip and then back to Clinton. “For those who have your trust.”

“Is it so dangerous, then?”

“There is danger in any magic. The doing of it would not harm you or Sir Philip.”

“What is this spell? What would it do?”

“You would take his place. Only for a portion of each day; anything more would change the conditions of Loki’s enchantment and may render it permanent.”

“I would be a frog in Sir Philip’s stead?” Sir Philip croaked again, a noise of protest. Clinton had not thought the croaking of a frog could be so varied.

Natasha hesitated. “Yes. But only he can receive the kiss from his true love to break the spell, and he must be in this form. This new spell will endure until his is broken.”

“Lady Audrey’s estate is only a few days’ journey.”

“Why would you take his place for so little time then? What is the benefit?” Natasha closed the book and placed it on a shelf before turning to meet Clinton’s eyes with a hard glare.

“I would change places with him entirely if it were possible. If all I can do is give him a small respite from this burden, I will do it.” Clinton took a deep breath. “If Lady Audrey is not his true love, he may be trapped in this body far longer than we would hope. Can I not give him time as himself? I owe him more than that in repayment for everything he has done for me and mine.”

Sir Philip was waving his foreleg in the air as he chirruped frantically. “I am determined, my lord. If Natasha is willing?”

“You know your own mind. If you ask it of me, I will do it.”

“I do ask it.”

“Then take him up again.”

Clinton held out his hand. For a time, it seemed Sir Philip would not oblige him, but finally he stepped onto his waiting palm.

“Sit there,” Natasha commanded, pointing at a small wooden stool set by the fire. “Keep hold of him.”

Natasha’s magic was not one of potions and cryptic advice or of flashy gestures and foreign tongues, though she was well-versed in both. Her magic was directed by her will alone. She stood behind Clinton and set her hands upon his shoulders. A prickling sensation swept his body, followed by a moment of intense heat. Sir Philip wriggled in his grip.

The moment passed and Clinton was suddenly fighting for his very breath. Sir Philip jumped to the floor and lay there, stunned. Natasha stumbled to the table and leaned heavily against it. “It is done,” she gasped.

Clinton slumped on the stool. The room seemed to move about him as if the cottage had set to spinning once more.

“May you not come to regret your decision.” Natasha’s voice grew stronger as she spoke. “Be cautious. You are in the grip of powerful magic. Do not be surprised if it pulls you from your path.” Natasha was not prone to needless dire pronouncements; Clint vowed to be on his guard.

In the time it took to walk outside to their waiting companions, Clinton’s strength returned fully. They found Sir Samuel and three of the foot soldiers standing at the edge of the garden, fear and anger mingled on their faces. Among the tangle of plants, Clinton could see the fourth soldier struggling in vain against curling vines winding about his arms and legs. A broad leaf covered his mouth, muffling the sound of his cries.

“Thief,” Natasha said coldly.

“I offer my apologies.” Sir Samuel went to one knee. “Despite Goodman Clinton’s warning, this man did take a handful of berries from your garden. He is in my charge; I beg that you will spare his life. I offer mine as forfeit.”

“If his crime were worth his life, he would be dead. He and he alone is responsible for his theft and he must pay his own debts. When you continue on your way, he must remain behind.”

“How long shall he remain with you, if the question is not impertinent?”

“Grandmother will set his punishment. She can be harsh but she is not cruel. Perhaps he will learn not to take things that belong to others.” As she spoke, the vines transported the man to the house, where they left him bound hand and foot.

Reluctantly they took their leave after wishing the prisoner well. Another of the soldiers, his brother by his words, remonstrated him for his folly even as they drove away. Such a beginning to the day left the party subdued and the easy cheer of the previous day did not return.

They stopped at midday to rest and eat. Clinton explained the spell Natasha had cast, though he had no answers to Sir Samuel’s questions. He had thought he would become a frog in Sir Philip’s place immediately and he could not say when it would happen; he only knew that it would. It was plain that Sir Samuel did not think much of his decision, but he said no word against it.

And so the second day passed. They made camp at dusk. Clinton felt odd, though he was reluctant to admit it. It was likely only the spell and there was naught any of their company could do to remedy that.

The change came swiftly and with little warning. One moment, Clinton was speaking quietly with Sir Samuel and the brother of their erstwhile companion. The next, he felt a prickling sensation and then he was gazing up at two giants. Only the fabric tangled about him kept him from fleeing and the loud croak that came from his throat instead of a startled shout told him what had happened.

“Upon my soul,” Sir Samuel cried. “Sir Philip, it is good to see you whole again.”

“Temporarily, which is more than I could have asked, and all thanks to good Clinton.” Sir Philip sat off to one side, away from the fire. “If I might beg a favor, Sir Samuel?”

“Only name it, my lord.”

“Some clothing perhaps, to shield me from the elements?”

“We are well-provided with anything we might need, including clothing for your return to your own body.” Sir Samuel fetched a small trunk from the wagon and set it at Sir Philip’s side.

“My thanks, good sir. Now if you would take up Clinton, that we might keep him in comfort and safety while he is in this transformed state. My froggish accommodations are all one might wish, if one must spend their days as a frog.”

Sir Philip dressed himself as Sir Samuel freed Clinton from his now unneeded garments. Clinton found that while he did retain his own mind, he had also the instincts of a frog and could move about and feed himself with little difficulty, if food presented itself.

The night wore on. Clinton, isolated by his altered state, rested in Sir Philip’s frog box. By some luck, Sir Philip had not been occupying it when the transformation occurred and was thus undamaged. One by one, they fell asleep, save one who stayed awake to keep watch.

A great roar woke Clint from his slumber. He hopped from the box to find the camp in disarray. The horses were screaming in fear, rearing in their makeshift paddock, which gave way under their hooves and released them into the trees. Two of the foot soldiers shouted for their brother in arms, who cried out in terror as he dangled in the grip of a large green troll. Sir Philip and Sir Samuel waited with their swords drawn, ready to exploit any weakness the creature might have.

The troll roared again and turned from them to crash through the trees, carrying their companion slung over its shoulder like prize game.

“We must go after them and rescue our man,” Sir Philip announced at once. Sir Samuel nodded his agreement.

They made ready to depart, gathering what little they would take with them. “Good Clinton,” Sir Samuel said. “I fear you must remain here. Speed is our chief need and in your current state…”

Clinton understood, though it did not sit well with him.

“One must remain behind, to keep him from harm,” Sir Philip said, to which Clinton uttered a tremendous croak. He did not need words to make his objection clear. It would take all the able-bodied of their company to defeat the troll.

There was some disagreement among Sir Philip and Sir Samuel over their course of action. Sir Samuel was of Clinton’s mind. Sir Philip, sensible of the debt he felt he owed, was more concerned with Clinton’s safety. He settled the matter by hopping into the wagon bed – no small feat – and hiding amongst the goods stored there. Sir Philip could make no more argument and placed the frog box near him, that he might have access to the water. They made their goodbyes and set off on the troll’s path by torchlight, Sir Samuel bemoaning the loss of his steed. Clinton was left to his solitude.

The night passed slowly until sleep eluded him no longer. Sir Philip had predicted a swift return, but Clinton did not share his optimism and arranged himself so that his transformation back to his human self would not damage any essential items in the wagon.

His foresight proved correct. At dawn, a chill he had not felt as a frog settled on his bare skin and woke him. He was a man once more and the rescuers had not returned. Clinton found his clothing and dressed quickly. If there was aught he could do to help his companions, he would do it. A great sense of urgency swept through him. He was needed; he must make haste.

So intent was Clinton on gathering what he might need, he did not hear the stranger’s approach until a voice called out, “Ho, the camp!”

The stranger was strange indeed. His horse and its trappings were lordly, yet he had no retinue. He wore bright armor, polished to gleaming, with odd bits affixed to his back plate and along each arm. Clinton did not recognize the blazon on his shield – a lightning bolt on a quartered field of red and gold. Behind him trailed Sir Samuel’s Redwing and the wagon team on a trio of leading reins.

“I see a wagon without horses,” the knight called out, “and here I have found three. What say you to this, goodman?”

“I say you have found our lost beasts, Your Lordship.”

“This one,” the knight jostled Redwing’s rein, “is no mere nag. You claim ‘tis yours?”

“I do not, Your Lordship. He belongs to Sir Samuel, a knight of the King Nicholas’ Court. He is one of our company.”

“Come, relieve me of these tiresome things.” The knight held out the reins and Clinton hurried to take them. Redwing was made restless by the lingering scent of the troll and would doubtless run off again if given the opportunity, taking the other two with him.

“Where might this Sir Samuel be, goodman?” the knight asked. He directed his horse in a slow circle around the clearing where they had made their camp, taking special interest in the downed trees the troll had left in its wake.

“He and the others have gone in search of our companion who was carried off by a troll in the night, my lord.”

“Aha!” The knight’s exclamation startled Clinton and he almost dropped the horses’ reins. “This is the very thing I am seeking. This troll, was it a great green beast?”

“It was, my lord. It was like no troll I have ever heard of.” Trolls, though common, kept to their mountains and rarely troubled humans unless provoked. Clinton had never seen one, but he had heard the stories as a boy and it was generally agreed that they were large creatures of gray and brown, the better to hide among the caves where they made their home. Once roused, they were difficult to defeat.

“I must find this troll. It has been harrying the countryside and I mean to stop it, as the sun has not turned it to stone as it ought. It went this way?” The knight peered into the forest. It would be no easy journey, even on horseback.

“It did, and my companions after it. I had hoped for their return before dawn, my lord. It is my fear that the troll proved too much for them.”

“I do not doubt but that it has,” the knight said. “Only one way remains to deal with this troll. Do you count a magician among your companions?”

“We do not, my lord.” By all accounts, trolls could stopped by two things – the sun and lightning. The first could be managed by keeping a troll well away from shelter until dawn. However, as lightning could not be expected to come from the sky as needed, a magician was required to call it forth.

“Then I hope that I am come in time.”

“You are a magician, my lord?” The question was impertinent, but Clinton’s surprise was great. Knights seldom learned magic, titled folk never, and this man was both.

“Magicians,” the knight said disdainfully. “I need not resort to trickery. Sleight of hand. Gulling the peasantry. Though I admit I have not yet discovered the trick of their lightning. No matter, I have created my own.” He patted one of the odd bits on his arm.

Clinton could say nothing to this claim. Perhaps the man had tamed lightning to his will. Perhaps he was mad and the troll would be their doom. The first could save his companions from a terrible fate, if they had not yet met it, and the second could hardly do them more harm than they had already found for themselves.

“I shall return with your companions, or news of them, as soon as I may.” The knight turned his horse to the woods and began to pick his way through the broken trees.

“My lord,” Clinton called, but he did not continue. He could not bid the knight stop and wait for him. What use would he see for Clinton to accompany him? If Clinton asked, he might order him to remain behind. How then might he react if he discovered Clinton following in direct disobedience? The titled did not like to see their authority disrespected, but follow him Clinton would.

“Worry not, my good fellow. I shall do my utmost to retrieve what remains of your company. You have the word of a Stark.” He spoke no more as he moved deeper into the trees, leaving Clinton alone once more.

Clinton had heard much of the lords of Stark. Alchemists and artificers, the lot of them, with little use for magic. Sir Anthony, the current Lord Stark, was as single-minded as a mule, he’d overheard Sir Philip complain once, but also loyal and just. There were worse men he could have encountered. Clinton hoped he would be understanding when he discovered Clinton had not remained behind.

The horses were consigned to the hastily repaired paddock. Clinton set out, bow in hand and quiver on his back, following in the footsteps of everyone who had gone before him in search of the troll. He saw no sign of Sir Anthony aside from hoof prints from his horse pressed into the soft earth along the way.

The sun was high in the sky when Clinton realized the chirping birds in the trees had gone quiet, leaving the forest in eerie silence. The trail became harder to follow; fewer trees were knocked down and his skill in tracking alone kept him on the right path.

He heard a great roar and answering shouts long before he came upon the battle. The troll was swinging its large fists at the men surrounding him, reducing trees to flying shards when he missed his targets. The two knights stood before it. Sir Samuel had his sword drawn to defend a fallen foot soldier laying on the ground behind him. Sir Anthony was trying to get closer, but he could not avoid the troll’s blows long enough to do so. The other two foot soldiers were behind it, but the jabs of their spears had little effect on the monster other than to cause it to turn its attention to them. Even then Sir Anthony could not get near the thing, for it began to lunge at the soldiers and its feet kicked up great clouts of earth behind it.

Clinton set down his bow and quiver and ran to the downed soldier. It was the one who’d been carried off. He still breathed, though it came out in whimpers of pain.

“Clinton!” Sir Samuel cried. “The sight of you gladdens my heart. This man must be carried to safety and I cannot turn my back on the creature. I fear his legs are broken.” Clinton reached for the man and Sir Samuel added another warning, “Have a care of his right shoulder as well.”

Moving the soldier could not be accomplished without pain, though Clinton did it as slowly and carefully as he dared. The troll was still roaring and tearing up the forest around them, raining clods of dirt and leafy branches down on them all. It was a wonder it hadn’t fled, but their presence seemed enough to keep it caged.

“I have to touch the blasted thing,” Sir Anthony yelled. “Why will it not keep still? I’ve no wish to die in the attempt.” Contrary to his words, he charged the beast, only to dodge a swipe of its hand at the last moment. He moved back to safety, ready for another opportunity. Sir Samuel, no longer needed to protect the fallen man, stabbed at it to no avail.

Clinton left the injured soldier in a sheltered spot by a large tree and took up his bow and quiver once more. He had little doubt his arrows would be as ineffective as blows from sword and spear had been, but he would not abandon the fight. He aimed his first shot at the base of the creature’s neck. It struck true…and bounced away without doing any harm. The troll swatted at its neck as if troubled by a flea and roared.

He began a careful series of shots; every moment the creature spent batting at their minor sting was a moment it was not attacking them. How unfortunate he had only one quiver along.

“Yes, continue!” Sir Anthony sheathed his sword and began to turn a crank on his vambrace as he cautiously approached the flailing creature. A whining hum filled the air and the odd addition to his backplate began to glow faintly.

“Move quickly, my lord,” Clinton replied, “for my quiver is almost empty.”

“I need but a moment.” The whine increased until the air felt thick, pressing in on Clinton’s ears like weights.

Sir Samuel attacked the troll’s flank. As it turned and roared, the two foot soldiers jabbed it with their spears. Clinton reached for his final arrow. The momentary distraction it provided would not afford Sir Anthony the time he needed to lay his hands upon the beast. But what else could he do?

A thought sprang to his mind. Clinton pulled a delicate white cloth from his shoulder bag. It was embroidered all along its edge with flowers and vines, much faded by the years – it had once belonged to his mother. He piled handfuls of loose dirt in its center and tied it in a bundle about the head of his arrow. He took careful aim, adjusting for the additional weight.

“Turn it to me,” he called. “I must see the face of the beast.”

Sir Samuel darted closer and stabbed it in the small of its back. The thing whirled about again, roaring in rage. Clinton let loose his arrow. It flew straight at the beast and struck right between its eyes. The cloth bag burst, showering it in dirt. The beast pawed at its eyes and Sir Anthony ran forward. He reached out with his gauntleted hand and laid it on the troll’s side. The creature stiffened, its back arching as it fell to the ground, roaring. Sir Anthony kept his hand on it for some time. When he finally retreated, the troll collapsed fully, its limbs splayed like a rag doll tossed carelessly to the floor by a child.

“Is the beast dead?” Sir Samuel asked. One of the soldiers prodded it with his spear. It did not move.

“Is it turned to stone?” the other soldier asked. The first shook his head.

“The tales say that is the work of the sun and we see how that has failed. Lightning should only frighten it away,” Clinton said. “Perhaps the tales are wrong?”

“Perhaps this is no troll,” Sir Anthony said. No sooner had he spoken those words than the troll began to melt.

“The tales never spoke of this!” They all stepped back several paces, for the troll was not melting but shrinking. Its skin lost its green tone as it did, becoming a more human hue.

“Is it…a man?” Sir Samuel asked when the transformation ended. He stepped forward, knelt by the body, and placed his hand on the man’s chest. “His heart beats.”

“Truly, he has been cursed,” Clinton muttered.

“What manner of man is he, to come from such a fearsome beast?” Sir Anthony wondered. “We will take him to my estate.”

“How shall we proceed? The way is long and two of our number cannot walk.” Sir Samuel’s question inspired many a suggestion from Sir Anthony, but Clinton had a more immediate concern.

“What of Sir Philip?”

The silence that fell was broken only by the lone chirp of a bird.

Sir Samuel looked around at the broken trees and churned earth, as if he would find Sir Philip there. “Come,” he said, beckoning the two men to follow him into the trees, away from the destruction. “We could not find the beast in the dark and so we took our rest. When day broke, Sir Philip became a frog once more and I carried him as we continued our search. When we finally came upon the thing, I made Sir Philip a nest of his clothing in the knothole of a large tree. We moved well away from it before confronting the beast, so I have no fear for his safety from that quarter.”

“Sir Philip? Lord Coul? Do you mean to tell me he has been transformed into a frog?” Sir Anthony’s voice held both disbelief and delight. “What, could you find none to kiss him human again?”

The good will Clinton had begun to feel toward Sir Anthony turned to dislike. For all Sir Philip did not often agree with Sir Anthony’s opinions and suggestions, he always spoke of him with respect. It would be to Sir Anthony’s credit if he were to do the same. Pity it was not Clinton’s place to teach him the respect that was Sir Philip’s due.

Sir Samuel stopped to face Sir Anthony. “Such words are not becoming of a man of your stature, my lord. Sir Philip is a man of good reputation and he is bosom companion to our king.”

Sir Anthony raised his hands for peace. “Indeed, he has my deepest friendship and respect. There is between Sir Philip and myself a merry war of wit and words. I sometimes forget myself, Sir Samuel, and launch volleys when he cannot answer. I will have more care of my speech.”

This answer satisfied Sir Samuel and they continued their journey. Clinton begrudgingly allowed that Sir Philip also spoke of Sir Anthony with fondness and he resolved not to hold on to his sudden antipathy. They soon arrived at the tree housing Sir Philip and found him still safely inside it. His croaks had a chiding edge to them; he was most unhappy at being left behind.

Retrieving Sir Philip only postponed their dilemma. They returned to the scene of the battle, where one of the foot soldiers stood guard over the unconscious former troll and the other cared for his injured brother-in-arms. The debate over how they should move the whole party continued. To a man – and frog – they agreed dividing the group was not ideal. Clinton was sure Sir Philip would have a clever suggestion if only he could speak to them, but they were denied the benefit of his experience.

They were no closer to an agreement when they heard someone approaching them through the trees.

“I follow a path of great destruction and find you at the end of it, Anthony,” a man called as he came into view. “I feel I should have foreseen this.”

Sir Anthony turned to face the new arrival, a large smile on his face. “James, my beloved, once again you appear just as I need you. I am most fortunate in my spouses.”

“Ah, it is well that you remember, for we have told you so innumerable times.” The smile on the man’s face belied his stern words. He dismounted and pulled Sir Anthony into an embrace made only slightly awkward by Sir Anthony’s armor. “You are not to hunt trolls on your own, dear one. Our lady wife will have some words for you on the matter.”

This then was Sir James, Lord Rhodes, boyhood friend of Sir Anthony and his husband of many years. Their union had been no surprise to any who knew them. No, tongues had been set wagging some time later when the two men had together married a young commoner named Virginia, the daughter of a pot mender. The years had proven their union sound and it was widely held that both Sir James and Lady Virginia were required to keep Sir Anthony’s wilder impulses in check. Now, tongues only wagged in anticipation of heirs for both men, as they did for many a highborn marriage. Not even the king himself escaped such gossip.

Heirs, or the lack of them, were of no consequence to Clinton. Truthfully, his sole interest in Sir James’ arrival was his horse. Two horses meant they could transport both the injured man and the prisoner at the same time. This thought occurred to the rest of the party and they soon lashed together several downed saplings and thick straight branches for the horses to pull behind them. Clinton took the time to search for any of his arrows that could be salvaged. He found what remained of his mother’s handkerchief, torn and dirt-stained, and tucked it away in his bag. His skills at sewing were not enough to mend it, but it was still all he had of her memory.

The journey back to their campsite was slow and halting as they maneuvered around felled trees, both old and new. Each bump jostled the injured man into pained groans and Clinton could only marvel that the troll-man did not wake at either the noise or his own uneven passage. The man was over thin and the dark shadows under his eyes seemed all the darker against his too pale skin.

It was with some relief that they arrived at the clearing. The horses still grazed in their paddock, which gave Sir Samuel great joy, for Clinton had not thought to tell him of Redwing’s return. The wagon and its contents were as Clinton had left them. It was agreed everyone would travel on to Sir Anthony’s estate, where he would see them fed and housed for the night, as well as tending their injuries, in thanks for their part in defeating the troll. The invalids were moved to the wagon – the prisoner stirred briefly, then subsided into insensibility again – and they set out once more, this time in more comfort.

They arrived at Stark Manor late in the day, though not so late Clinton didn’t have time for a leisurely meal before darkness fell. The apple he had eaten as he followed the troll’s trail through the woods and the strips of dried meat Sir Samuel had shared between them after the battle had done little to quiet his hunger. Lady Virginia (Pepper to her husbands for reasons Clinton was not privy to) had been all that was generous and gracious, to the extent of providing a room for Clinton and Sir Philip when it came time for their transformation. Sir Philip’s clothing was awaiting him, as was a minor feast; Lady Virginia and Sir Philip had become fast friends after King Nicholas had bestowed a title on her for services to King and country and she was happy to show him every courtesy.

 The transformation, thought expected, still caught him unaware. One moment Clinton was telling Sir Philip about the battle with the troll and the next he was blinking up at him in his human form.

“A stirring tale, Clinton. You must continue it on the morrow.” Sir Philip picked him up from the floor and placed him on a chair. Only then did he clothe himself. “I am famished. What might feed a frog will not nourish a man.” He made short work of the food left for him.

Sir Philip rose from the table. “Come, we shall join our hosts. The household will be preparing for their slumber, but Sir Anthony is often wakeful long into the night.” He took Clinton up and cradled him in his hands. “I would foretell a quieter night than our last, but I know Sir Anthony too well to trust in such a prediction.”

Upon asking for Sir Anthony, a servant directed them through a door set at the back of the main hall, wherein they found a great room half again as large as the one they had just left. A great number of tables were set about the room, and each held an assortment of items – pieces of armor or scraps of metal or sundry devices whose use Clinton could not fathom. Along one wall was a blacksmith’s forge, mercifully unlit, with an anvil and other tools of the trade set within easy reach.

In the center of the room sat a great circular table. It was covered in piles of rolled parchment, but for the middle, which was cut out. This empty space held Sir Anthony, who darted about grabbing up rolls here and there, only to toss them back down when they proved unsatisfactory for his unknown purpose. On the outside of the table stood Sir James and Lady Virginia. The troll-man, seemingly no longer a prisoner, was also at the table; he sat upon a stool as he drew odd pictures on a piece of scraped animal hide.

“Sir Philip,” came Lady Virginia’s happy voice. “How wonderful to see your face once more.”

Sir Philip approached the table and made his greetings to all. “I must thank you for your hospitality, my lady. And to Sir Anthony as well, when he is reminded of my existence.” He spoke the last in a raised voice full of humor.

“It is no use, dear friend. My lord husband is lost to his first love – the solving of a puzzle. Our guest has proven to be a traveling alchemist, fallen afoul of some curse by his own hand.”

“’Tis no curse, Pepper-my-lady,” Sir Anthony called out, his attention caught by their words. “Curses are of the realm of magic and my thoughts on that subject are well known. What ails Bruce comes from the natural world and there we will find the cure.”

“Magical curse or mysterious illness, your interrogation of this afflicted man can wait ‘til morn,” Sir James spoke finally, a fond frown on his face. “I must depart for Rhodes on the morrow and I would spend this night with my spouses. If you are agreeable.”

“I would not come between a man and his family, my lord,” the troll-man said. His voice was low, as if he wished to escape notice. “I have searched for a cure for many months, to no avail. Your interest, your willingness to help, my lord, it has given me the hope I had lost. I will stay as long as you require me.”

“But James’ visit to Rhodes isn’t for another two days, I’m sure,” Sir Anthony protested. “Perhaps even as many as five. Tell him, Pepper.”

“He leaves tomorrow, beloved. It’s time we were abed. Bruce, is it?” Lady Virginia asked the troll-man, who nodded. “Bruce has agreed to remain at Stark. There will be time to study his affliction in the coming days, when we are not all three together.”

“You speak too much sense,” Sir Anthony said with ill grace. He came out from the middle of the table. “Rest you well, Master Bruce, for tomorrow our work begins in earnest. And James, do not think you will not hear my opinion of your frequent absences from my side. Has a place been arranged for Bruce?” Sir Anthony stopped short. “Sir Philip. You are decidedly unfroglike. Is this some trick, then? Have I not said as much of all magic?”

“Magic moves through our world, whether you believe in it or no, Sir Anthony. I had thought Sir Samuel would reveal the particulars of our situation? Is this not so?”

“Something does come to mind… A trade of some kind? Magic defies all reason. It is well to see you restored, as temporary as it may be. Perhaps we will meet again once you are permanently recovered. But I am reminded of my husbandly duties and so must leave you.”

With this outrageous pronouncement, Sir Anthony left the room, leaving the rest of them to stare after him. Lady Virginia sighed. “James, would you escort Sir Philip and Goodman Clinton to the room prepared for them? I will see to Master Bruce.”

Sir James led them to a finely appointed room and left them with wishes for a pleasant sleep. The room was the finest Clinton had ever had occasion to enter, excepting the few he had seen of King Nicholas’ castle, and he wondered that he was meant to sleep in it, even as a frog. He found Stark and its lord to be very odd and he would not be sorry to see the last of it when they continued their journey.

“Rest well, Clinton, and enjoy the calm I was so hesitant to predict. I can only be thankful after such a day as today. Mayhap tomorrow will treat us more kindly.”

Clinton could not give voice to his belief that it would not. He was certain they would be plagued by some sort of magical hindrance. It was as Natasha had warned him. If he had judged right, it was only another day’s journey to Lady Audrey’s estate. Perhaps luck would be with them and the inevitable delay would not be too great. Such were his thoughts as he drifted off to sleep.

Dawn found him human again… and alone; Sir Philip was nowhere to be found. Before his concern could turn to alarm, a servant entered the room, bearing Sir Philip and an invitation from Lady Virginia to break his fast before their journey.

Clinton ate quickly and retired to oversee the packing of the wagon with the supplies generously provided by Lord Stark. He had also to remove the belongings of the injured foot soldier, who would be remaining at Stark Manor until he was fit to travel. He busied himself with small tasks until Sir Samuel took their leave of their hosts and only breathed a sigh of relief when Stark Manor was far behind them. His place was not in such high company.

As the day wore on, nothing of a magical nature occurred and Clinton allowed himself to enjoy the fine weather and fine company. Sir Samuel told light-hearted stories of his time in King Nicholas’ Court and the soldiers knew many songs to help pass the time. Sir Philip chirruped in harmony with some of the more bawdy melodies, to everyone’s delight.

Late in the afternoon they came upon a great rift in the earth, directly across their path. It looked to be of recent making - the edges were rough and crumbling; time had not yet worn them smooth. A wooden post set in the earth held a hewn plank, its point leading them to the east along a faint path through the trees. They followed it to find a bridge of rope and planks strung across the rift at its narrowest point.

“If we abandoned the wagon…” Clinton suggested despite his deep desire to do the opposite.

“Even were I to trust this bridge with my life, it would not hold Redwing or the other beasts,” Sir Samuel said. “See there, the way continues on. Perhaps there is another crossing.”

Before Clinton could say aught, the sun caught on something in a shadowed crevice across from them. That portion of the rift wall was more uneven and jagged than the rest; Clinton thought perhaps there had been underground caves or tunnels that had collapsed when the earth split. There was another glint of light from the shadows.

“Do you see…” Clinton began, but he could not say what he saw, only that it was out of place.

“We do not possess your keen eyes,” Sir Samuel said. “What could it be?”

Movement; a shadow within a shadow. A certainty grew in Clinton’s mind, knowledge he could not swear by and yet he would, someone was trapped in the earth.

“A man! He moves.” Clinton secured the reins and jumped from his seat to the ground. He went to the bridge and began to cross, moving slowly though something in him urged him to make haste. Sir Samuel came not far behind him, having bid the foot soldiers to stay with the horses and wagon.

The ground on the other side was treacherous. It gave way under every other step, but Clinton and Sir Samuel persevered. Clinton could not say where he was going, but he was sure in his direction. The appearance of a large hole in front of them, with steps descending into the ground, did not surprise him as it ought.

“Clinton.” Sir Samuel’s voice came as if from a great distance.

Clinton did not heed him and set his feet upon the first stair. “There is someone…” He began to descend.

The darkness was tempered by the sun shining through the broken earth. He was glad of it; in many places the steps had been turned to rubble. Torch brackets could be seen in parts of the wall that were still standing. A collapsed archway came into view; this was his destination.

“Clinton.” Sir Samuel said again, but he could not answer.

Clinton stepped through the archway into a large cavern. The familiar prickling that accompanied his transformations swept over him, though stronger than he had ever felt it, even when Natasha had first performed the spell. Then the feeling vanished, yet he was still himself. It was some unknown magic, that was certain. He and Sir Philip were connected by magic. A sudden fear took him.

“Sir Samuel,” his voice was rough as if from disuse, “there is a spell upon this place and I fear it has affected Sir Philip through me. We must go.”

Leaving was more easily said than done. Sir Samuel was climbing up the steps again, but Clinton could not go back the way he had come. It was as if an unseen wall now stood between him and escape. He pushed against the air; it was as unyielding as a boulder.

Sir Samuel returned. “What delays you? Are you caught?” He approached the archway and Clinton put up his hands.

“No closer, I beg you, sir. Some magic keeps me here. I would not have it ensnare you as well.”

“We must find a way to free you.” Sir Samuel began to search the rubble as if it contained a magician powerful enough to break the spell.

“Please, Sir Samuel, it is Sir Philip who must have your duty and care now. I cannot be easy until I know he is safe.” The terrible thought that magic had struck him down through Clinton would not leave his mind.

“I will see to Sir Philip. But I will not abandon you. I will return and we will not leave this place without you.” Sir Samuel held his hand over his heart to seal his oath.

Clinton knew Sir Samuel honor was beyond question, but that he would swear such an oath after only a few days’ acquaintance awed Clinton beyond measure.

“Thank you, good sir. It is a privilege to have a friend such as you.”

Sir Samuel made his farewells, renewing his promise to return as he did. Then he ascended the steps once more and was soon lost to Clinton’s sight.

Clinton turned to examine the cavern that was now his prison. Very little light came through the archway and assorted cracks in the earth, but it was enough to guide his steps across the rubble-strewn floor. Midway across the chamber sat a stone table wreathed in unnatural shadow. An armored figure knelt before it, a drawn sword across its lap, head bowed – the traditional mourning sculpture set before the tombs of great rulers and warriors. Perhaps the magic of this place served only to protect and preserve the one buried in it. Clinton hesitated to come too near.

Time moved strangely; it seemed but mere moments before he heard Sir Samuel’s return, but the dimness of the light shining through the cracks in the ceiling told him it was nearer to night than he had thought. Would his transformation take place when night fell? Would the magic of this place hold him as a frog? He suspected his escape would not be accomplished so easily.

“Clinton!” The voice, though familiar, was not Sir Samuel’s. Clinton returned to the archway.

“Sir Philip? How-“ Sir Philip was indeed standing before him, human once more. Sir Samuel was at his shoulder.

“We do not know. The spell has not been broken in the traditional way and I do not trust it to remain so. Have you discovered aught that might aid us in freeing you?”

“It is the tomb of an unknown hero. To break the spell keeping me here would desecrate the remains.”

“What hero worthy of such a burial would lie here forgotten? What preservation spell would entrap the unwary like this? This cannot be as simple as it appears.” With that, to Clinton’s horror, Sir Philip stepped through the archway. Sir Samuel followed without hesitation.

In the dying light, they approached the stone table. The shadows still hid the honored dead, but the table itself began to shine as they neared.

“Have a care,” Sir Samuel whispered. “I like this not.” He pulled a dagger from its sheath at his waist.

The kneeling figure lifted its head. It – he, for it was the figure of a man – struggled to his feet. The sword slid from his lap; he caught it by the hilt and the blade struck the stone floor with a ringing sound.

“What sorcery is this?” Sir Philip cried. He drew his sword. “Guardian, hold! We mean no disrespect.”

Sir Samuel had his own sword in hand. “This is like no tomb guardian I have ever seen. Is this a man or an automaton? I have no wish to kill an enspelled man.”

“A man, for no automaton yet created can ape life half so well. Clinton, keep well away,” Sir Philip said. “We do not know if he guards against our weapons or our very presence.”

Clinton, no fool, had retreated to the archway. His bow and quiver were with the wagon; he was of no use in this fight. The guardian stalked closer to the two knights, his sword dragging along the floor, creating sparks against the stone. Then he stopped just beyond their reach and held his sword in front of him, point down.

“Sir knight,” Sir Philip addressed him, for he wore the trappings of one, “can you speak?”

There was no response until Sir Philip took a step forward. At his movement, the guardian slashed the air in front of him with his sword. His intent did not seem to be to strike, for when Sir Philip stepped back, he settled once again into his waiting posture.

“Clinton,” Sir Samuel said quietly. “Take some few steps closer. Let us see if he will take notice of it.”

Clinton did as he was bid. The guardian remained a statue.

Sir Samuel sheathed his sword and his dagger. “Now for me.” His step forward met with the same reaction as Sir Philip’s.

“Perhaps with our weapons on the ground?” Sir Philip mused, but neither man wished to risk it.

Clinton had noticed a strange thing. “Sir Philip, if you would step forward once more?”

Sir Philip gave him a curious look, but did as he was bid. When he stepped back again, he said, “What did you see?”

“When the guardian attacks, the stone table shines more brightly and the shadow atop it becomes smaller.”

“I do not like the look of that shadow, I tell you truly,” Sir Samuel said. “Perhaps if we engage him in extended battle, the shadow will be banished entirely?”

“A sound plan, though we do not know if he draws strength from the light or the shadow,” Sir Philip replied.

“Or which controls him.”

“It may be of a piece. Clinton, we will draw him out. When the shadow has lifted, approach the table and touch it with a bit of iron. That should disrupt the spell.”

Every child of the realm was taught to carry an iron token to break stray enchantments cast by the Fair Folk or bored magical apprentices. The habit persisted into adulthood; Clinton had an old key on a cord about his neck. “Have a care for your lives, good sirs. I will await my chance,” Clinton promised. He moved carefully around the three to stand near the stone table, the more easily to fulfill his duty.

The contest was unequal. The guardian, with no will of his own, could not respond quickly or creatively to their attacks. They could have taken his life a dozen times over, if such was their intent. With each clash of swords, the unnatural shadow cloaking the honored dead shrank more and more, though the increasing brightness was just as effective a screen from prying eyes. When only a wisp of darkness remained, Clinton took his key from where it hung and thrust it into the light, shattering it as if it were new ice on a pond in early winter. A sword clattered to the ground.

Upon the table, which still glowed faintly, Clinton could see a knight laid out in the traditional manner, his sword and shield at hand. For all Clinton did not have a highborn education, even he recognized that shield; this was the body of Sir Stephen of Rogers, a knight of long ago who had been lost while battling the necromancer, Red Skull. It was a legend that was slowly becoming myth, and the truth of it was before him.

An anguished cry sounded behind him and Clinton was pushed aside.

“No,” the guardian growled as he took Sir Stephen’s hand in his own. “Stephen, it cannot be. ‘Tis impossible.” If the tales could be trusted, this could only be Sir James of the Clan Buchanan, Sir Stephen’s closest companion – brother or lover, the tales did not agree.

Sir Philip came to help Clinton to his feet. “Well done. You have freed him from the enchantment.”

“Only through your efforts, and Sir Samuel’s.” Clinton nodded his thanks to Sir Samuel as he joined them. “I believe this is the final resting place of Sir Stephen the Righteous. See the shield.”

“Thus the guardian must be Sir James the Valiant, lost to the world with Sir Stephen so long ago. A momentous discovery,” Sir Philip said in wonder. He was a collector of tales of Sir Stephen; in his possession was an old family history that was said to belong to Sir Stephen’s mother.

“And a tragic one,” Sir Samuel said, for Sir James taken up Sir Stephen’s hand and pressed it to his face.

“Wake, this is no time to be sleeping,” Sir James pleaded. “You cannot be dead. ‘Tis not possible.”

“What can be done for him?” Sir Samuel wondered softly. Clinton and Sir Philip had no answer.

Sir James bent down and kissed Sir Stephen upon his mouth. “Rest well, beloved. I shall join you soon enough.”

Any response they might have made to this alarming speech was lost, for at that moment Sir Stephen opened his eyes. “Bucky,” he murmured. “You live.”

“As do you, despite your efforts to the contrary.” Despite his chiding words, Sir James’ face was all joy.

“It is not our intention to impose on you, good sirs,” Sir Philip said. That their presence had been overlooked until that moment was evident; both Sir Stephen and Sir James startled at the words and their hands fell to their swords – though Sir James now had none.

“There is much that must be shared between us, but let me assure you that we mean you no harm. Perhaps we could leave this tomb and speak in more comfort above ground?”

The two men looked around the cavern. “You speak wisely, sir knight. May we know your names?” Sir James said. Sir Stephen sat up, moving slowly but with no other ill effect from his centuries-long slumber.

“I am Sir Philip, Lord of Coul, adviser to King Nicholas. My companions are Sir Samuel of the King’s Court and Goodman Clinton, a freeman.”

“King Nicholas?” Sir Stephen repeated. “What of Queen Margaret?”

“The days of Queen Margaret were long ago,” Sir Philip said regretfully. “You have been lost since your defeat of the Red Skull, over two hundred years ago.

Sir Stephen bowed his head briefly. “Then we must present ourselves to the King and see what lives we can make in this time.”

“Sir Philip speaks wisely. Let us leave this place of death before we speak of living again.” Sir James helped Sir Stephen down from the stone table. “Take us hence, we will follow where you lead.”

Without further ado, Sir Philip and Clinton led the way to the fallen archway. The faint glow that had lit the chamber was fading quickly and they had no torch to dispel the darkness. Sir Stephen and Sir James followed next, and Sir Samuel the last.

The archway did not bar their leaving. Once again Clinton felt the prickling sensation of transformation as he stepped through. When it ended, he was a frog. The spell had returned.

“I had almost forgotten,” Sir Philip murmured. He gathered Clinton up along with his crumpled clothing.

Sir Stephen and Sir James exited the cavern and a sudden chill filled the air. Sir James gave a humorless laugh, cold and evil and utterly unlike the man they thought him to be.

“Did you think you would escape so easily, Righteous Man?” The voice was not Sir James’, though it came from his throat. “The spell that kept you sleeping unchanged in your tomb also hid my final spell within your lover’s mind. Now with nothing to keep it in check, my final act of revenge will be realized. You will die at the hand of the one you love, solely because I willed it.”

Sir James set his hands at Sir Stephen’s throat and began to squeeze. Sir Stephen fought to pull them away, but his reluctance to injure Sir James made his efforts fruitless. He was gasping for breath when Sir Samuel jumped through the archway and sent them all to the ground.

Sir James fought like a demon, but the combined might of Sir Stephen and Sir Samuel kept him trapped on the ground as he yelled vile epithets and threats.

“How do we rid him of this curse?” Sir Samuel shouted.

Sir Philip, who could do little to aid them in their struggle, thought quickly. “A magician might free his mind. We could bind him until we find one who might help him.”

Clinton, huddled in his clothes, had his own thoughts on the matter. Perhaps too much education made simpler solutions easy to overlook. By some luck, his iron key was laid on top of his clothing. He croaked for Sir Philip’s attention, then took the key up in his mouth so it would not be missed.

“I am a great simpleton,” Sir Philip cried. He took the key from Clinton and tossed it to Sir Stephen, who had Sir James’ shoulders held firmly to the ground. “Touch it to his skin.”

Sir Stephen did as he was bid. The effect was immediate. Sir James gave up his struggle and slumped to the ground in despair. “I am a thing of evil. Red Skull has tainted me even after his death.”

“Not so. His curse is broken.” Sir Stephen coaxed him to sit up and placed the iron key around his neck. “Let this reassure you.”

“I tried to kill you.” Both men got to their feet. “How can you bear to touch me?”

“The act was not yours.”

“The years I spent standing guard at your deathbed weigh heavy on me. Now we are freed from the tomb, the memories flood my mind. These men are not the first to discover us, only the first to come away from the encounter alive. Red Skull’s twisted guardian spell has meant the death of countless others. I have become the thing I despise most.” With that, Sir James turned and ran up the damaged steps, his way lit only by the full moon overhead.

“Bucky!” Sir Stephen ran after him, with Sir Samuel and Sir Philip – bearing Clinton – close behind. The steps were treacherous and slowed Sir Philip’s progress, as he did not have full use of his hands to steady himself.

They emerged well after the others. Sir James was running on the other side of the rift. Sir Stephen and Sir Samuel were crossing the bridge, which swayed alarmingly under them. Sir Philip reached it just as it gave way, almost sending Sir Samuel to his death. He caught a trailing rope as he fell and pulled himself up to solid ground again with Sir Stephen’s help. Sir Philip and Clinton were trapped on the other side. The distance between them was not great, but insurmountable all the same.

“We will search for another bridge,” Sir Samuel called immediately.

Sir Stephen spoke to Sir Samuel, though his words could also be heard by Sir Philip and Clinton, even across the rift. “This is where we part company, for Sir James has fled and I cannot leave him alone and friendless in this strange time.” Then, resolute, Sir Stephen began to walk along the path in the direction Sir James had taken.

Sir Philip sighed. “Sir Samuel, I would ask a great favor of you. Sir Stephen should not be without aid in his search. He has nothing.”

“What of you and Clinton? You are left with nothing as well.”

“We are very near Lady Audrey’s estate. If we travel through the night, I believe we will arrive before dawn. Perhaps you could throw a small bag or two with our belongings and a small portion of food across to us? Lady Audrey will provide anything else we might need.”

Reluctantly, Sir Samuel did as Sir Philip requested and a bag was tossed across the rift to them. Clinton regretted the absence of his bow, but they did not want to chance its damage or loss. Sir Philip still had his sword. They would arrive at Lady Audrey’s as little more than beggars, but they would arrive.

Farewells were given on both sides and Sir Philip made his way back to main road. He set a good pace and spoke companionably as he walked, unconcerned with Clinton’s inability to respond beyond the odd chirrup or croak. At intervals Sir Philip took his rest and a bite to eat. Thus they passed the night and nothing – magical or natural – appeared to plague them.

The sky was lightening when they finally arrived. The household was just stirring and Sir Philip quickly gained admittance. The time of their transformation was approaching and Lady Audrey would surely accept the explanation of their plight more easily from Sir Philip himself.

“Sir Philip,” Lady Audrey said with a smile as she entered the room where they had been left to await her. Her hands were extended in greeting. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

Lady Audrey, as Clinton had learned during their night journey, was a patroness of artists and musicians. She took joy in the beauties of nature and aided the poor unfortunates that so many chose to overlook and ignore. She was truly worthy of Sir Philip and Clinton understood well why he loved her. He only wondered that they were not already married.

“My lady,” Sir Philip responded as he took her hands and held them in his own. “I would not disturb you at such an hour and without sending word unless the situation were desperate. I will explain, but I have little time.” He proceeded to tell her of Loki’s spell and Clinton’s offer to take his place. Of their troubles along the way he said little, only that they had become separated from their escort and finished their journey alone and on foot. “If I might ask it of you, my lady… a kiss from you may see me wholly returned to my true self.”

“You may ask it of me a thousand times, Sir Philip, and I will answer ‘yes’ each time. Will you have the kiss now or must I wait until you become a frog once again?”

Sir Philip raised her hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Sadly, I must be a frog.”

Clinton, who was resting upon a cushion, averted his gaze. He knew not if this was an example of courtly manners or an exchange between two lovers and he had no wish to intrude on what they might have wished to be a private moment.

The transformation came upon them then and Clinton found himself without clothing in the presence of a lady. While her attention was given to Sir Philip, he took the opportunity to creep behind a nearby chair. He peered over the top of it to find Lady Audrey smiling at him.

“Shall I arrange for clothing for you, goodman?”

“I have clothing,” he said as his face flushed under her gaze. “In the bag. My lady.”

Clinton was astonished when Lady Audrey fetched the bag with her own hands and brought it to him. “The time it takes you to clothe yourself will not determine whether my kiss will successfully break the spell or not. He would not begrudge you your comfort.” Sir Philip croaked from his pile of clothing.

She spoke truly and Clinton could see how well they were matched. Sir Philip’s happiness was imminent and Clinton would rejoice in it. Any regrets he might have were the product of foolish fancies and he resolved to put them aside once and for all.

“Thank you, my lady.” Once clothed, he stepped out from behind the chair and went to stand near the window.

“Shall we, my lord?” Lady Audrey stooped to retrieve him from the floor. Without fanfare, she placed a kiss on his head. As with the king, a golden aura glowed around him briefly, and as with the king, faded to nothing. Sir Philip remained a frog.

“It is as I suspected,” Lady Audrey said sadly. “I did not think the love that is between us would break the spell. I am sorry for it. I wish it were otherwise.”

Clinton was lost in confusion. Surely Lady Audrey was Sir Philip’s true love? The way he spoke of her, her joy at seeing him, the way they touched each other so freely – Clinton did not understand how the spell had not been broken. What to do next?

This question plagued Clinton all through the fine meal he ate at Lady Audrey’s table. It plagued him as he accepted a small cart and supplies from her. It plagued him all through their journey back to King Nicholas’ castle – a journey free of magical mishaps, bandits, and bad weather. Finally he stood before the king, Sir Philip in hand, and still he had no answer to the question.

Nor did the king, it seemed.

“Who can his true love be?” he pondered aloud. “Did he say aught during his time in his own body? Give any clues to who it might be?”

“No, Your Majesty.” Sir Philip’s conversation had briefly touched on Lady Audrey and his belief that while they did feel great love for each other, they were not each other’s true love. No other words on the subject crossed his lips. Instead, he made plans for improvements on his many holdings, including Barton and even touched on who the traitor in the Court could be.

“We shall have to think on this,” King Nicholas said.

“One kiss remains,” his wife, Queen Maria reminded him. “We should think very carefully before acting.”

Clinton was dismissed with the command to continue attending Sir Philip and he left the royal presence with great relief. He was led to Sir Anthony’s chambers, for he and his party had arrived but a day ahead of Clinton and Sir Philip. Accompanying him was Lady Virginia and they had brought Sir Samuel, Sir Stephen, and Sir James - who had been found and convinced of his lack of evil – after they had presented themselves to Sir Anthony with their tale. Also returned was the injured foot soldier, now recuperating with his family.

Their reunion was full of cheer, made bittersweet by Sir Philip’s continuing existence as a frog. Clinton learned of Sir Samuel’s adventures with Sir Stephen – there were many, for all they had only spent mere days in each other’s company. Sir Anthony openly questioned Sir Stephen and Sir James’ identities, though with humor rather than malice.

Lady Virginia pulled him aside to speak with him. In her hand she held a folded cloth. “Sir Philip asked that this be repaired as well as could be managed,” she said as she handed it to him. When he unfolded it, he found it was his mother’s handkerchief. It was no longer dirty and the tears had been sewn carefully closed with tiny, even stitches. The embroidery, which had begun to unravel and fade after so many years, had been redone as well.

“Thank you, my lady,” Clinton said, his voice thick with emotion. “This is precious to me and I mourned its destruction.”

To think Sir Philip had arranged this during his short time at the Stark estate. Clinton went directly to Sir Philip, who was at the center of a conversation including Sir Anthony and Sir Stephen. They were at odds over some trifling matter and Sir Philip hopped away from them when he noticed Clinton approaching. Clinton carried him away from the noise of their discussion.

“My lord,” Clinton began. “I must thank you. My mother’s kerchief… you cannot know what this means to me.” A compulsion came over him. Before he could think better of it – or think of it at all – he bent his head and kissed Sir Philip right between his bulging eyes.

A familiar golden aura enveloped them both. It did not dissipate but grew brighter, blinding everyone in the room. When they could see again, it was to find Sir Philip a man once more.

There was much rejoicing and a servant was sent to inform King Nicholas. Clinton could only stare at Sir Philip in disbelief. “My lord, I-“ He found he could not apologize, though he had taken a great risk. If it had not worked, Sir Philip, and therefore Clinton himself, would have been doomed to spend half of their remaining lives as frogs.

“Clinton,” Sir Philip said. “I never thought you might return my regard.” He seemed unable to say more. Clinton longed to touch him, but despite the kiss, he felt he should not. Then Sir Philip stepped closer and put his arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace.

King Nicholas and Queen Maria arrived. On their heels was Natasha, an unexpected sight.

“Hawkeye, my brother, I have learned much of this spell of Loki’s,” she said as soon as she saw him. The entire room fell silent. “But I see you have broken it already. Congratulations.”

“I am grateful to have my dear friend restored,” King Nicholas said, “but Clinton took a great liberty. The risk-“

“Bah, risk,” Natasha exclaimed. “Whatever Loki implied about the spell he cast, it was a lie. For I found the original spell – some stupid thing, meant to teach a lesson – and it is thus: ‘If true love there be, find it you will with kisses three.’”

“Are those not the words Loki spoke?” the king asked.

“No, Your Majesty,” Clinton answered. “He said ‘must’, not ‘will’.”

“A small change, but most important. The spell would not allow a kiss from any but Sir Philip’s true love after he received the blessing of two loved ones. He would not have been trapped as a frog, as Loki wanted you to think.”

A great croak filled the room. Sir Philip lifted his hands. “It was not I.”

“Nor I,” Clinton added hastily.

“No, it was Loki himself.” From a pocket in her cloak, she pulled for a large green toad, slimy and covered in warts.

“Natasha, did you…?”

She snorted. “Magic has rules. The spell was possible only because Sir Philip had already met his true love. By those same rules, because Loki acted from malice rather than to help or teach, the broken spell settled on him. It seems he has something to learn from this. I suspect he will not be a frog long enough to learn it; his family loves him too well to let him stay long this way.”

Clinton had heard all he needed and he took Sir Philip’s hand to pull him away from everyone. It had not occurred to him until Natasha said it. He was Sir Philip’s true love. It was every unattainable dream he had ever had come true.

“If I may,” he said in Sir Philip’s ear, “I would kiss you as a man.”

Sir Philip tilted his head closer. Clinton’s eyes slid shut and-

~

Clint woke slowly. He sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and ran a hand through his hair. Phil was just waking up, blinking sleepily as he yawned.

“Just had the craziest dream,” Clint mumbled. He stretched his arms above his head and arched his back, loosening sleep-stiff muscles.

“Hmmm?”

“You got turned into a frog.” Clint propped himself up on one elbow and smiled at Phil. “But don’t worry, I saved you.”

“How’d you do that?” Phil asked, his voice still scratchy with sleep.

“Just like this.” Clint leaned down and pressed a kiss to his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from Bryan Adams' song "Everything I Do (I Do It For You)"
> 
> Russian translations:  
> сестричка - sister/little sister  
> братик - brother/little brother  
> (Translations come from Google Translate, so if they're wrong, please let me know.)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Banners] Search No More: A Froggy Fairy Tale](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7783591) by [Knowmefirst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Knowmefirst/pseuds/Knowmefirst)




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